(Un)natural Selection
by stagepageandscreen
Summary: Some part of him knew that it was only a matter of time before Enjolras was Selected. Which was why Grantaire had to be there to cut him short, heckle him, try to make him lose his focus, because if Enjolras was focused on him, then he wasn't drawing the attention of The Council, with his bright flares of passion and belief and strength. Dytopian AU. Probably two or three shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Okay, no idea where this came from or how well it will turn out. I suppose the setting is sort of canon dystopia AU thing. Now, this is my first attempt at something like this, so bear with me and any constructive criticism is welcome. This is probably going to be a two or three shot, so please follow and favourite if you like it!**

**Enjoy! **

**(Un)natural Selection**

The dying, burnt orange rays of the setting sun bounced off the hideous steel and glass constructions that made up the accommodation for the inhabitants of the Slums. The shadows that the buildings cast stretched out menacingly, steadily claiming the city inch by inch. The smog created by the never ending stream of smoke from the factories mixed with the shadows, creating an odd half-light that was both oppressive and strangely beautiful.

People scurried in the streets, heads down, shoulders slumped, many on their way home after a long day of work, some in search of an alcohol den or brothel in which to drown their sorrows. As the streets emptied, pairs of National Guard soldiers appeared to patrol the city, their white cross-belts standing out from the encroaching darkness, their weapons gleaming dully in silent threat. Only the brave, or the foolish, traversed the streets at night.

In the shadows of this dictated and dangerous city, a lone man was walking. Actually, walking does not adequately describe the way that he travelled, for the word 'walking' conjures up visions of long, summer strolls in the country, or a leisurely journey down a bustling city street. No, this man was slinking, gliding, flitting effortlessly from the shadow of one building to the other. He blended in well, his mop of inky curls matching the darkness surrounding him, his faded and tatty clothes rendering him nondescript. He was well known to many in this sector of the city, the borderline between the poor and the destitute, the Slums. He was known as an artist who rarely painted, as an eloquent drunk, as a cynic who believed in nothing, as a good for nothing with a big heart. His names are just as numerous; Nicholas, Taire, Capital R, R, but usually Grantaire.

His destination that night was the usual one, a tiny underground café by the name of _Le Cafe Musain_. Hidden many feet underground, it was a drinking den for people from all walks of life, mechanics like himself mixing with clerks, foremen drinking beside furnace stokers. It was known to many, but was kept as a place of absolute secrecy, one of the lone places that men could be themselves without the fear of being watched or overheard.

"Hey, you!" the words were barked in the crisp tones taught only in the barracks. Grantaire froze, cursing himself as he realised he had been caught by a patrol.

The men looked almost identical, their faces expressionless masks cast into shadow by the heavy black helmets that they wore. Their eyes were concealed behind thick visors, giving them a distinctly sinister appearance.

"Can I help you?" Grantaire went for the polite tactic, hoping they would only ask him a few questions before sending him on his way.

"What are you doing? It's late, curfew time."

Grantaire rolled him eyes and shrugged. "I had a big job to finish at work that meant I had to stay late." He snorted in faked frustration. "If my boss wasn't such a disorganized idiot then I wouldn't be racing the curfew to get home." This was a complete lie of course, but it was one of his strongest excuses and had never failed before.

The men were silent for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to believe him. Finally, one of them nodded, a single, stiff movement. "Don't let it happen again."

Grantaire threw them a mocking two fingered salute and began to move away, filled with the relief of success, when the leather gloved hand of one of the Guardsmen clamped down on his shoulder. The touch was impersonal and hard, making Grantaire want to shudder in discomfort.

"We're going to have to search that bag." Damn. His bag was filled with turpentine and paint, illegal items in a city where art is banned.

"If you insist." He kept his face turned away from them and his voice carefully calm. The hand was removed from his shoulder and in that instant Grantaire bolted.

Darting into the familiar warren of dark, stinking streets he soon lost the two Guards, leaving them to find their own way out of the tangled labyrinth that made up the Slums.

By chance, his unplanned flight had taken him in the direction that he had wanted to go anyway and so it was only a few more minutes before he reached the deeply shadowed stairway that led down to _Le Café Musain. _The wall was dank and slimy under his fingertips as he slithered and stumbled down the filthy steps. Faced with a chipped and faded door, he rapped out a seemingly random rhythm, cursing when a splinter of wood pierced his already scarred knuckles.

He wiped the blood off on his oil stained trousers, smiling slightly when a sliding panel opened and he was faced with the manageress of the Musain. "Let me in Louison, my darling, for I am in dire need of drink!"

After a moment of good natured grumbling, he heard the sound of bolts being slid back and a moment later the door opened.

"Good evening, my lady." A well placed kiss had the plump, grey-haired woman blushing and telling him to 'push off', which he did.

Weaving effortlessly between the other patrons, he opened another door that led into a lesser known back room. He ensconced himself at his usual table in the corner, his customary drink order clutched loosely in one hand, and began his habitual task of watching a god play at being human, his close call with the law already forgotten.

The other occupants of the room, the _Les Amis de la ABC_, barely noticed that he was there, apart from a delicate looking young man, dressed in several hideously clashing colours, who paused from scribbling in a notebook long enough to give him a smile and a small wave. The rest of them were all preoccupied doing what Grantaire was doing, only to them the god is no god, but their leader and their friend, Julien Enjolras.

Enjolras was a young man of twenty or so with a fiery halo of golden hair and sharp blue eyes that made Grantaire's secretly artistic hands itch for a pencil or a paintbrush. Enjolras' hands were never still, always gesturing, moving, running through his hair, almost as eloquent as the words that he speaks.

Grantaire took a long drink from his bottle, barely tasting the liquid, focusing on the actions that Enjolras was making, committing them to memory to recreate illicitly on canvas, not really concentrating on what Enjolras was speaking out against until two words caught his attention and he felt his heart freeze.

_The Selection._

Simply the sound of those two words churned Grantaire's stomach and made his throat go dry.

Many years before he was born, France had been falling to ruin. Failed wars, bad harvests, and dissention amongst the people had all taken their toll. In a desperate attempt to regain control, The Council had been created; a group of powerful and rich people who would pull France back from the brink of disaster. The Selection was the most feared day of everyone's year, the day that one person was chosen at random to be taken to the High Lands to have their belief and life force absorbed by the Council that resided there. The process was to ensure that the Council never grew old, never lost purpose, but the power had corrupted them, made them greedy and grasping.

The Selection was supposed to be random, but Grantaire was certain it was not. It was why he drank. He knew that the Council went for the inspiring, the passionate, the people who were filled with life. It was what the Council fed off after all, and he found it to be too much of a coincidence that over half of the Selected in the last ten years had all been people who had spoken out against the Council and the practice of the Selection.

Some part of him knew that it was only a matter of time before Enjolras was Selected. His belief was too obvious, too public, too strong to be ignored. This fact scared Grantaire because if there was one thing in his empty, miserable life that he believed in, it was Enjolras. Which was why he there to cut him short, heckle him, try to make him lose his focus, jeer at his beliefs and be an all-around nuisance, because if Enjolras was focused on him, then he wasn't drawing the attention of The Council, with his bright flares of passion and belief and strength.

He tuned back into the conversation (not that he was actually involved in said conversation) just in time to hear Enjolras give a scathing verdict on The Selection, wrapped up in his certainty that luck, or Fate, or Destiny, or whatever rubbish they all believed in, was on their side and that all of them would escape unscathed this year. At this Grantaire could not resist giving a rather unsubtle snort, therefore drawing everyone's attention onto himself.

"I'm sorry, but did you find something I said to be _funny, _wine cask." Enjolras tone was as icy as his blue eyes, eyes that were fixed on him for the first time that evening and the drunkard couldn't help but drink in the attention being paid to him by his idol, even if it was for all of the wrong reasons.

He winced in mock affront at the insult, even though the words did cut deeper than he liked to admit. "You wound me, Apollo, for I am barely even tipsy this evening! As for your question, yes, I do find something funny. The fact that you still cling to the belief that The Selection is a random event."

"I am actually as sceptical about the process of The Selection as you are," he bit out, "but that is beside the point. We have not done anything to draw attention to ourselves yet, which leads me to believe that our group is safe."

"Belief is the process of someone purposely deluding themselves because they will not see what the world is really like." Grantaire saw Bahorel, his only real friend in the group desperately signalling for him to leave the subject alone, but he ignored him. To see his Apollo in all his majestic and wrathful glory was well worth the cruel words that were bound to follow. He needed to see the brightness of Enjolras' fire, absorb the heat no matter how painful it might be, imbibe of the passion that he himself is incapable of.

"You only scorn those who believe because you are incapable of it yourself." Enjolras snarled the words, moving towards the corner Grantaire occupied, his knee high boots making barely a sound as they touched the floor, his whole posture that of a wolf stalking it's pray, teeth bared for the final, deadly blow. "You are incapable, not only of believing, but of thinking, of willing, of living, even of dying." With those final, bitter words, he whirled on his heel and was gone, the long leather coat he always wore swirling out in a perfect arc behind him. Soon he was followed by his lieutenants, many of whom threw him pitying glances as they passed.

Grantaire thought over the words that Enjolras had thrown at him, twirling the bottle between practiced fingers. "You will see, Apollo." He murmured to the empty café. "You will see."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thank you to all of you who reviewed, favourite and followed! Just so you know, there is an ickle bit of swearing in here, just in case that offends you (but seriously, it's like one word and is completely justified). **

**Here you are people; Part 2! Enjoy!**

People were roused early the next morning, the sirens that blared out across the city jarring them from the brief peace of sleep. They stumbled in their ones and twos, the industrial smell of the city clogging their nostrils as they threaded their way through smoke clogged and rubbish strewn streets towards the main square, like poisoned blood pooling thickly to the dying heart of a dying city. All were afraid, but all had different ways of showing it. Some shifted from foot to foot, eyes on the ground, fear radiating off the sheen of their skin, the scent of it thick and choking. Some mumbled words of prayer, their lips forming the words at a speed too fast to follow. Some acted unafraid, but their smiles were too tight, their laughter too loud, too brittle.

All were afraid.

Despite the mass of people, the Amis still managed to find each other, gravitating together as if by instinct, as if their souls knew when they were in the presence of one another and pulling them together accordingly. The poet of the group, a one Jean Prouvaire or, as he preferred, Jehan, said as much, his pale blue eyes flickering nervously between his older friends and the pompous finery of the Council members majestically assembled on the stage at the front of the square.

Grantaire, upon hearing the words, snorted in derision, but quietly so as not to offend the gentle young man of whom he was really quite fond. As appealing as the idea was of having a soul-deep connection with this group, for him it was never going to be. He had ended up amongst the idealistic young men that morning by chance, bumping into Bahorel and being pulled along by his force. Whilst his quiet scoffing went unnoticed by Jehan, it did not escape the attention of Enjolras. He glared at Grantaire for a moment, obviously still displeased after their dispute the night before, but Grantaire simply grinned and waggled his fingers in greeting, the action causing a deeper scowl to appear on his idol's face.

A deathly hush fell over the clustered people as the Head Speaker stepped forwards grandly. He stood silently for a moment, resplendent in his finery, finery paid for with the pain and suffering of a nation. "Today," he intoned, his face as expressionless as his voice, "we are faced with the task of discovering our next Volunteer."

This was lie that they spread, though it was little more than a sick joke. It was said that the people who were Selected had inside of them a Volunteer, that a part of them was willing to give themselves up for the good of the Council and the country.

Enjolras growled softly at the word, actually growled, and Grantaire was suddenly filled with the absurd need to laugh. He must have made some kind of mirthful noise because he was suddenly once again faced with Enjolras' furious stare. "You can afford to be mirthful, Grantaire. It is not as if you have anything to fear." Spoken in a lacerating whisper, the words burned into Grantaire's skin like white hot knives, the feeling a bittersweet pain he relished.

"Calm yourself, Enjolras." Combeferre whispered, as usual the one to make the peace. "That was needlessly cruel."

All conversation, in fact all noise, stopped as an official stepped forwards, an envelope of creamy parchment resting in his fleshy white hands. As the innocuous piece of paper was handed to the Head Speaker, Grantaire found himself reflecting on how difficult hands were to draw. The delicate muscles, the individual shape, the fluttering of tendons and the shading of veins; all so difficult to capture. He looked down, taking in the sight of his own in an irrational need to fathom the enigma of hands. A bright spot of blue paint by the side of his right thumbnail became a fascination to him, the lines of his palms and the calluses on his fingers seemed to be guiding him towards a great secret.

He was snapped out of his revere by Bahorel's elbow meeting sharply with his ribs.

"Are you drunk?" He mouthed, concern etched on his features. He had noticed Grantaire staring at his hands like he had never seen them before, his gaze blank and glassy.

Grantaire gave a crooked grin. "I'm always drunk." He whispered with a wink, focussing once again on the situation surrounding him.

The crowd murmured and muttered amongst itself, each participant praying to be spared, all aware that they could be chosen. The Amis instinctively gathered in a protective circle around Enjolras, as if simply the force of their presence could protect him. Enjolras himself stood tall and proud, unafraid of the fate that could be about to befall him, his clenched hands the only slight sign of his nervousness. At that moment, Grantaire promised himself that he would perfect the drawing of hands, starting with Enjolras'.

The name of the Selected person rang out across the assembly, loud in the heavy silence.

"Nicholas Grantaire."

An eerie stillness fell over everyone and, to Grantaire, it was as if he had heard the name of a stranger being called. The Amis were frozen, confusion and disbelief etched into their features, although Grantaire noted the veiled relief that flitted momentarily through their eyes. He did not begrudge them the feeling, for it was natural for them to be glad that their Chief had escaped. It was the events that suddenly unfolded that stunned Grantaire more.

A few people, friends from his boxing club, a couple of fellow underground artists and a handful of his vagabond drinking companions began to chant. "Capital R! Capital R!"

More and more people began to pick up the chant, and as more people began to recognise the name, anger began to spread throughout the crowd. A few braver individuals began to hurl insults and abuse towards the Council, their faces contorted in rage. National Guardsmen, their faces impassive to the outpouring, stood shoulder to shoulder as a human barrier against the crowd. More insults began to fly, then a single punch. The crowd was on the verge of becoming a full out mob as hearts beat faster, the poison of oppression being purged from their bloodstreams by anger.

Grantaire couldn't believe it. His name was inspiring a mob! What strange, what ludicrous irony was this?

A hand grasped his and Grantaire knew its touch without even needing to look. He glanced down, taking in alabaster skin, long, elegant bones that made up the fingers, and the perfectly shaped nails that would be the envy of any grisette. Sudden sadness flooded him as he realized that he would never draw these hands, never immortalize them in charcoal and paper. His eyes turned upwards to Enjolras' face, seeing the carefully constructed façade fall away into a multitude of emotions, confusion being the most prominent.

"But you believe in nothing!" Enjolras had to shout above the din of raised voices, but his meaning was clear. How could Grantaire, a cynic, be Selected, a process that required belief to be present in the subject?

Grantaire could see the National Guard forcing their way through the mob towards him, lashing out with their rifle butts and not caring with whom they made contact. He knew he only had minutes left.

"I believe in you." He spoke the words softly, but Enjolras heard them and his eyes widened in understanding. For Grantaire to be Selected, his belief in Enjolras must be even greater than Enjolras' belief in a better world. As if to convince them both Grantaire repeated the words. "I _believe_ in _you_."

In the moments before the soldier reached them, Enjolras retook Grantaire's hand, squeezing it firmly. "I misjudged you grievously…my friend."

The Guardsmen were upon them before Grantaire could reply, tearing the two compatriots apart, breaking the fragile connection of their fingers. Rough hands, uncaring hands grasped Grantaire's arms, forcing his hands behind his back to allow the cool metal of handcuffs to encircle his wrists. Out of instinct, Grantaire tugged at the restraints, instantly disliking the restriction and horrified by a sudden realization. His hands would never again hold a paintbrush or a piece of charcoal, never again become a weapon as he sparred with his boxing opponents, never again embrace a wine bottle, or clasp the hands of his friends.

"You filthy bastards!" Bahorel roared, his scarred fists lashing out at the Guardsmen as they pushed him away from Grantaire. Tears leaked from Jehan's eyes even as he clawed manically to reach his friend. A warm feeling filled Grantaire's chest as he finally realized how much the group, his friends, cared for him. He was jerked backwards, being forced in the opposite direction to the Amis until he could only see Enjolras, his golden curls catching the morning light, the burnished halo standing out like a beacon.

"Don't waste this, Enjolras!" The words flowed from him almost without his permission, his voice rising in a defiant bellow above the furious outcry. "Don't waste this!"

**A/N I'm not sure if I should leave it here or create one more part of the story. What do people think? Let me know in a review. Please? **

**P.S. I have no idea why so much about hands appeared. Honestly, I just started to write and was like, "Oh, okay, I'm having a mild fixation on hands. This is weird…let's keep going!" Ah, the wonders of being an author.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Here is the end. Enjoy my lovely people, and see the end for the long emotional thank you. ;D**

* * *

A heavy cloud of smoke hung over the city, as always, but on this occasion the roaring fires were fuelled by the hated symbols of the Council's regime. Statues, notices, posters, and flags were torn down from their allocated positions and hurled into the blaze that had been lit in the main square, the same square that had been the home of the Selection process for so many years.

Grantaire's final words (_Don't waste this, Enjolras! Don't waste this!_) had been taken to heart by the Amis, whose numbers had swelled drastically on that fateful day. Boldly, they had kindled the flame, the light of their belief banishing the shadows, beginning a flash fire that leapt from district to district of the city, scorching and consuming the control which the Council and the National Guard had over the people. Little by little the ice of fear and indifference that had held the city frozen for so long began to melt, the candle of revolution rising to a blazing wildfire. The people had finally arisen, their blood roused against injustice, their lips singing the songs of angry men. At their head stood Enjolras, the sun-bright Apollo at the heart of this incandescent rebirth.

"To the Uplands!" he bellowed, his hand holding aloft the blood-red flag that was the symbol of their revolution, his eyes crackling with an electric fervour. "Down with the Council! _Vive la Revolution_!""

The people, who had for so long been paralyzed with fear, let out a wild shout, moving as one towards the road that led to the Uplands. The blockades that had stopped them so many times before were swept away by the tidal wave of revolution, the structures left shattered and broken by the side of the road.

As they approached the gaudy coloured entrance to the Uplands, it became obvious that Enjolras' fear of being fired upon from the walls was unfounded. It seemed that Combeferre had been right in his estimation that once the Revolution started the infrastructure of the city would break down and order would be lost along with any coherent resistance. Communications would be disrupted, soldiers would be without leaders as the Council would retreat to the centre of the Uplands in an attempt to save their own skins. A grim smile crossed his lips in the knowledge that the Council's attempts to save themselves would be hopeless. The fire had been lit, a fire that would burn away the filth, the pain, and the injustice of the old regime to allow the bright phoenix of the Republic to rise gleaming from the ashes.

A group of dock workers and iron workers, their huge muscles straining under skin scarred with the blows of the Overseer's whip, had begun to break down the gilded, golden gates that sealed off the Uplands from the rest of Paris. Enjolras caught sight of Bahoral in the midst of them, his teeth bared in a terrifying grimace as he joined with his brothers and fellow countrymen to bring down this final barrier.

With an agonizing groan and an earth-shaking crash, the wooden gates of the Council headquarters fell to ground like two lifeless giants. Before the dust had even settled, the tidal flood of human beings had surged over the gates, their boots scraping away the layer of gold leaf, exposing the gates for what they were; simple wood, plain and tawdry. Nothing more than a lie, the same as everything else the Council said or did.

"Enjolras!"

The cry came from his left and he spun towards the sound, his sharp eyes instantly picking out Courfeyrac's distinctive figure. The dandy was far from his well-groomed self now; waistcoat hanging loose and missing several buttons, dark curls swept in several directions, a plethora of miniscule wounds marking his handsome face with tiny, bloody lines. "We've found the way to the Extraction Chambers! Come on!"

Without a backwards glance, Enjolras dropped the material fisted in his grip and set off at a blind run, following Courfeyrac though the chaos filled streets, running to save the one man who had made all of this possible.

* * *

Grantaire felt transparent, weak, a shadow of his former self. The straps that held him securely in the chair had had to be tightened over time on account of his shrinking frame. He didn't know why they even bothered with the restraints now; he didn't have the strength left to even lift his chin off his chest, let alone try and break out of the casket.

The metal and glass construction had been his only view for the last…well, he didn't know how many days, weeks, months it had been since he had been flung in here, his head reeling from the drug that had forced him into submission. He didn't know how long it had been since the thick leather straps had been fastened cruelly around him, how long it had been since the extraction had begun. All he knew was that he was tired, so very, very _tired_.

With one great effort, he attempted to lift his eyes, the optical orbs seeming to weigh as much as the small blocks of marble he used to smuggle into his rooms to try and sculpt, chipping away at the cold stone until an object began to take shape. Oh, how he missed his art, more that he missed the wine even.

"Drink with me, to days gone by…" The familiar song came out as a pathetic whisper, words and melody mutilated by his dry throat. In a burst of sudden fury at his helplessness, he flung his head back against the back of the chair, refusing to give in, to give up.

The same view filled his vision, a bland view formed of a plain stone wall and a dull metal door, but with one major difference. The door was open and a familiar figure stood framed within the doorway.

Grantaire felt his wasted facial muscles tug into something bordering on a smile as he allowed his heavy head to drop back onto his chest. The extraction, and his life, must nearly be over if his hallucinations were now conjuring up visions of Enjolras. From his normal position he could not see his idol move further into the room, only feeling his breathing become shallower, thinner.

"Sorry I couldn't buy you more time, Apollo." He murmured to himself as the now familiar darkness of overtook him once more.

* * *

Enjolras felt as if he had stepped into a nightmare. The Extraction Chamber was a tiny, freezing cold room filled with rows upon rows of icy caskets, each one filled with the shrunken corpse of past Selected.

He stood motionless in the doorway, taking in the horrendous sight, his eyes drifting of their own accord to the tangle of wires that led from one of the caskets up into the ceiling, the wires that carried the essence of life that was sucked from the people brought into this chamber…

A sudden connection fused in his brain as he fully processed the information laid out before him. He stepped further into the room, eyes checking, judging, assessing. Yes, only one casket was attached to the wires, which could mean only one thing.

With a burst of energy fuelled by desperation and adrenaline, he sprung forwards, long fingers fumbling with the heavy metal bolts that held the casket shut. As the final bolt released and he wrenched the door open, a hiss of pressured air broke the eerie silence of the tomb-like chamber.

The figure that sat within the casket was barely recognizable as Grantaire. His clothing, the same that he had worn on that fateful morning, hung off his frame like a filthy shroud. His chin rested on his chest and the long, tangled curtain of his hair covered his face. Dotted around his body were circular, black, rubber pads attached to a tangle of dull, copper wires.

"Oh, god, Grantaire…" The words were spoken in an agonized whisper, the only volume that seemed appropriate in this situation. Immediately, he began to remove the pads, wincing as a thin layer of skin peeled off with them, leaving bright red marks on the cool, pale skin. Flinging the last pad away from him contemptuously, he set upon the leather straps that held the other man upright, fighting the stiff, unyielding buckles.

The straps finally fell away, almost immediately followed by Grantaire pitching forwards, the wasted muscles unable to support his weight.

Clumsily, Enjolras caught him, dropping himself gently down onto the floor, the unlikely martyr held in his arms as he desperately searching for a pulse, his ear tuned to pick out the sound of Grantaire's breathing. To his immense relief, he found both, although they were extremely faint.

"Grantaire?" he shook the still form slightly, "Goddamn it, 'Taire, wake up!"

There was no sign of movement for a long moment, but then, miraculously, Enjolras was faced with a set of startling sea-blue eyes that were misted and unfocused.

Nothing was said. There was no sound in the chamber, not even an echo of the carnage in progress outside. All was totally still.

"We did it, Grantaire. We didn't waste the chance you gave us." The words started coming, for Enjolras needed Grantaire to believe him, needed Grantaire to believe _in _him once more. "The Uplands have fallen, and all the Council are either dead, captured or on the run; we did it."

With every fiery word that soared from Enjolras' lips, a tiny spark of life seemed to return to Grantaire; a glimmer in his eyes, a touch of colour to his cheeks, the slightest movement of his fingers.

"How long has it been?" Grantaire asked. His right foot moved an inch. "I tried to count the hours, the days, but I lost track…I lost track so quickly." His chest expanded in a deeper breath than before, his fingers curled into a fist then relaxed.

"Three hundred and twenty-two days, fourteen hours and twelve minutes." The once aloof leader helped the once cynical drunkard into a sitting position against the wall, offering him a drink from the flask on his ammunition belt. "I am only sorry you had to suffer for so long."

Grantaire swallowed the water in desperate, greedy gulps, a disappointed sigh escaping his lips as he finished the contents. Casting the flask aside, he reached for the alabaster hand that lay as a supportive presence on his shoulder, his voice steady and earnest as he spoke. "I would do it again a hundred times over for you all."

Enjolras clasped their hands together. "And for that I shall be eternally grateful." He rose to his feet, elegant as a dancer, his lean limbs pulling Grantaire's frail form up off the ground. "Come," he said, wrapping Grantaire's arm around his shoulders, "tomorrow is here and a new life has begun."

And so the once distained outcast stepped forwards with the once disdainful chief, both of them equal brothers in the brave new world before them.

* * *

**A/N So here it is, long gushy emotional authors note...**

**A massive thank you for everyone who has followed, favourited, viewed and review. I know I posted this at a really quiet time on FanFiction, so I was pleased with the response I got. Thank you to Phoenixflames12, La Patron-Minette, FabulouslyFreeSpirited, guineamania, 15YearOldSinger, Running Colours, and Un-ended Tales Unravel for your reviews. They were gratefully accepted with squeals and happy dances.**

**As a final note, if you are still hungry for dystopia depression with friendship and drama, go and check out Phoenixflames12's story 'Fallen Angels'. It is an amazing piece of writing and deserves a lot of love.**

**See you around mes amis!**

**SPAS or Libz**


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